


Frontispiece

by Sara Generis (kanadka)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Insecurity, International Relations, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 10:09:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5123678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanadka/pseuds/Sara%20Generis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot of fairy tales happen something like this, you go to a ball you don't quite belong at, you meet a kind handsome stranger, you dance with him, you give your heart away without flinching. Set in 1779.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frontispiece

It’s a beautiful night for a party - the sky is clear, the moon and stars are bright, it’s winter, yes, but not too crisp (for him anyway; he can tolerate colder things than this night’s more temperate offerings), - the music is beautiful, the guests are beautiful, the palace is beautiful - how could it not be, his mistress is intoxicating enough to summon the best and brightest architects, and they create whimsical projects for her delight alone -

\- and Russia watches from the sidelines. 

It’s not that Russia isn’t invited. His Empress insisted upon his being there, and France is here, that’s reason enough for him to accompany the Empress’ party to this giant ballroom, its gilt-gold edging the immaculate white panels on the walls like lacquered accent, the shiny marble floors on which the high-heeled shoes shift and click, the hall of bronzed panoplies leading outside to the third floor balcony, the perfect pedestalled bodies of the gods dotting the halls.

It’s  _his_  land. It’s the place where his Tsars and Tsarinas live, isn’t it? And yet Russia still doesn’t feel he belongs.

But that’s not why he remains, by the colonnades, leaning on one with his plate of veal (it’s very rich, and very delicious, and doesn’t really satisfy him the way potatoes and cabbage would). For the most part, he stays here, partially obscured, because he's been told he isn’t a good dancer and doesn’t want people to cajole him into festivities he can’t be properly European in.

 _Russia_  thinks he’s a splendid dancer, he knows he’s a marvel with  _pereplyas_ , but the dances he’s used to doing aren’t the kind that are ever in fashion. And his Empress told him  _best behaviour_  which Russia understands really means  _whatever France does, you do_.

France’s ankles are far too weak for Russia’s dances.

It can’t be helped. That’s alright. There’s food, and it’s more important he make a good, strong impression, because his Empress has done so much for him as a nation that he can’t let that go to waste. He must be the strong, brave face she tells all of Europe he is. He has to be that great power, and … great powers don’t dance the  _khorovod_. Maybe they  _quadrille_ , instead.

Russia is lost in amusing thoughts, mostly involving the beautiful, graceful France trying (and failing) to contend with his kicks and squats, fantasies where all of Europe agrees how commanding and triumphant he looks and Prussia and France have to console themselves with Austria’s silly little waltz instead…

\- when up pops a young face he’s never met before.

“What are you thinking so hard?” asks the young man in French.

“Ah…” Russia begins eloquently. He is sufficiently distracted.

This man is well-dressed in a military uniform that Russia doesn’t recognise. The stitching and colours appear French. And he speaks it smoothly.

Russia can’t possibly tell the fellow his real problems, because he doesn’t know him yet. He’s not someone Russia has met before, and he dresses French. So he suspects he isn’t a country, perhaps one of France’s men. No, Russia definitely can’t reveal himself to a stranger.

“It’s nothing,” Russia replies.

“Didn’t look like nothing,” murmurs the man. At Russia’s polite and evasive smile he drops it. “Well, you seemed so lonely over here. I thought I’d say hello.” He turns to leave.

“Oh, no! I am glad you did,” says Russia, who _was_ lonely, because who among these noble, intelligent fellows would stop to chat with the tall, awkward, quiet soul in the corner, making a mask of his simple smile? “Forgive me. You startled me, I was unprepared. But allow me to convince you I can be a proper conversational companion!”

They make polite small talk for a few moments while the dancers whirl on, and the more time he spends with this young man, the more Russia discovers he cares less and less about the ballroom. Soon, the dancers and their European opulence fade away entirely. Even if he isn’t a country, this young man is kind and bright, decently witty, and Russia relaxes in this strange little human’s company into a comfortable amity.

They help themselves to some more food. Yes, the man must be French - his French is too good for him not to be, and the way his eyes go wide at the sight of the veal identifies a  _petit gourmand_. The man gorges himself on it, nearly euphoric in his enjoyment. “Surely you have had veal before?” Russia inquires.

“I have!” the man exclaims, once he has swallowed. “But it’s been awhile. Where I come from, we’re mired in what’s quickly becoming quite the war. This is such a luxury!”

“A war in France?” Russia asks, knowing it couldn’t be so, but hoping to ferret out the man’s true origins.

The man shakes his head so fast his blond curls bounce against his temples. He swallows his food quickly and says, “Of course not! Not this decade, at least!” (What a strange way for a human to be speaking.) “The war is far, far from France. Elsewhere in the world. You need not worry yourself over it!”

Russia hmphs. “I do not fret over what are little more than skirmishes,” he announces proudly, a little cock-sure.

The man gives him a wide smile and changes the subject. “Come,” he says, setting his plate back down on the table and there abandoning it. “You  _must_  show me some of this beautiful building.”

“Right this way,” Russia bows, extending a hand, which the man accepts gracefully.

He steers them through the doors, past the liveried guards in their handsome crisp Imperial uniforms. They salute Russia as he walks by. In the hallway, he leads his new friend down a hallway next to the balcony. The tall, wide doors are closed, and the windows are shut tight, but there is a slight draft from the cold. Russia graciously puts himself on the balcony-side to absorb some of the chill.

“These are beautiful,” says his young French companion, gesturing to the walls.

“Ah, the paintings? Yes!” Russia is glad to prattle on about them. “The Empress - German, originally, although I like to think she is one of mine - ah, ours, I should say, one of ours now - anyway, she is the one who ordered the purchase. Many works from further west adorn our walls. These were brought all the way from Berlin! You can tell, yes? The style is very Western.”

“Is that far, for you?”

“Anywhere is far for me,” Russia says. “My land is so large. You can’t understand.”

The man smiles a secret smile.

“Ah! And over there is the wing to the Tsarina’s apartments - we’re not allowed, you see. Here, this way instead.” Russia leads them down another hall, emblazoned with Greek key next to the high arched ceiling, barrel-vaulted above them with warm curves, painted in ivory. “The entablature there, above the columns, is Baroque-inspired - the Empress does not like it, but she has very precise tastes and this palace was not built for her but for the previous Tsarina. Out here, one can get back to the ballroom via the balcony.”

“You know the palace well. You must live here,” the man guesses.

“Ah,” says Russia. “No. No, court is for the rich, for the leaders of the nation. The nation…”

…why, the nation lives in hovels and is on average barely literate, hardly able to afford vodka brewed by someone who knows their trade, and goes blind more often than is good for a hard-working serf.

“I would never have guessed,” his companion says warmly, covering for Russia’s silence. “You truly look like you’re in your element, here.”

Russia beams, not-so-secretly thrilled at the praise. “You know, I just follow my rule-of-thumb,” he says diffidently, “just do what France does-”

No! A slip-up, he had been doing so well!

“Ah. Francis. His name. N-not Fra- you must forgive me, my French is not so good!”

“It sounds fine to me,” the man assures him. “Francis, eh?”

“He is a good friend of mine,” Russia says. “He is the one who invited me tonight.”

“He invited me too,” the man replies.

“Then you know him! How wonderful!” And Russia takes this opportunity to praise his good friend France, talking all about how amazing he is, how wonderful, how very wise and bright and enlightened. And isn’t he splendid, and all that!

The man is mostly silent and allows Russia to dominate the conversation. “He’s alright,” he says at last. “Francis, that is. He’s an alright sort of person.”

“I sense he’s going through some things,” says Russia.

The man nods. “Maybe if he stopped getting involved in things in which he has no bearing. Maybe he might be able to save some money.”

Russia thinks about the little conflict France has been talking about overseas, with Britain and one of Britain’s unruly little colonies, and says, “I agree. He gambles.”

“That he does indeed,” says the man darkly. “And he plays with such high stakes.”

He seems very cross, thinks Russia, his handsome face marred by a deep frown. Russia has almost mustered the courage to reach out and comfort him physically - a hand on his shoulder, perhaps something even more close - when the man straightens and brightens. “Enough of that,” he says. “That’s not why I’m here. Tell me, do you dance?”

Russia’s heart leaps into his chest. He loves dancing!

But not the kind of dance the man undoubtedly means - at that kind, he’s new, he hasn’t done much, he is not so graceful. If only country dances were the kind of thing one could do in a palace!

He stammers, “We are both men,” as though that’s the real reason he is apprehensive.

“I thought you followed your rule of thumb,” the man teases.

“Francis would never be improper!” Russia says, firmly, remembering how France teased him about his soft men, calling them sodomites, making it an insult.

The man’s eyes sparkle with laughter. “I wonder truly if we know the same man,” he says, demure. But he leaves the topic for now and asks, “Come! Let us take some air.”

“It is cold outside,” Russia advises. Not too cold for himself, but this man is a human.

The man shrugs. “I’ve never been bothered by the cold.”

Russia feels like warning him that the cold in his land is not the same as the cold in France, but this man is not easily dissuaded and so he will allow his weather to speak for itself. He pulls open the door and says, “After you.”

The balcony is a small expanse of space, enough for perhaps four men to walk abreast of each other, its floor made of wood stained a deep brown and highly polished. The railings are wrought iron, straight black pipes. Ordinarily the Empress might have had them decorated for the occasion; that they are minimally adorned says that she does not expect anybody to be on the balcony and they probably shouldn’t linger. “What a view,” his companion says.

“This is the third floor,” Russia replies. “I hope you are not afraid of heights?”

“Not overmuch,” says the man.

“And you’re not cold at all?” The chill in the air permeates Russia’s thin military dress. The extra material on his lapels and chest do nothing; he feels as though the cold reaches its spindly fingers easily up his sleeves and sneaks past his gloves to his bare flesh. He is not cold - far from it, he would not dare shiver in front of someone else (certainly not a Frenchman! land of mild temperatures) - but he would be more comfortable if they returned.

The man shakes his head. “I come from a much colder place. What a beautiful night,” he says, looking up at the sky. He leans on the railing of the balcony, fully trusting it to support his weight.

Russia approaches him and stands too close for personal space. “What it’s like, where you’re from?” he asks.

The man is properly vague. “The west, far west of here,” he says. “Or east, it’s how you like. About the same latitude, though. And where I live, there’s enough water that it’s a wet cold, unless you go inland farther away from it. In the summer, I can grow things; in the winter, I’ll admit it’s desolate.” He sighs. “It’s clear Francis doesn’t think much of it. But it’s home, to me.”

“That sounds nice,” he says. “Your home.”

“It isn’t quite mine yet,” the man adds darkly.

Russia doesn’t know quite what to say. Perhaps this man is a serf too, like so many of his people. There’s a moment of silence, in which they can clearly hear the stream of music from the warm glow of inside, a sharp contrast to the moonlit silver-blue landscape they find themselves in. It has begun snowing again, the flakes falling softly on the man’s shoulders, dusting his beautiful blond curls.

The man looks down at their hands, inches apart. “I should get back to the party,” he murmurs.

“Do you really have to go?” Russia asks in a low voice. He’s having fun - this is nice, the quiet conversation.

If he is honest with himself he’s having a  _lot_  of fun.

“I’ve really no business here but dancing!” says the man, “Francis took me on those conditions alone. Not to chat and talk. That - well, the sort of man Francis is, his business, chatting has a different purpose entirely. So if you only want to talk, well… I can’t have him thinking I’m going behind his back. I am already behind someone’s back being here at all.”

“Th-then we’ll dance,” Russia blurts. Even if he’s clumsy. “Although, I should warn you, I am not very good.”

“I think you’re perfect,” the man disagrees, his face deadly serious. He takes Russia’s hand.

The music, Russia notes belatedly, that filters in from the windows, is not the kind of music he usually dances to. It’s a three-four time, accent sometimes on the second beat. Almost like one of Poland’s mazurkas (those are so horribly country, as far as dances go, but he loves them as much as Poland does) but the beat sometimes changes…

It’s a waltz, he realises. One of those new things Austria made up. Austria, that country he shouldn’t like because his Empress is Prussian and _those two_ have been having issues. It’s therefore a little risqué to have such a dance at one of her parties, isn’t it?

…It’s even more risqué because the way France taught him the steps, it’s a very close dance.

The man steps into his personal space and ducks under his arm, so that Russia’s arm rests on the man’s shoulders. His other, the man takes by the hand and holds it out. “Your other hand. On my waist,” the man prompts.

“Hey, I know this dance,” Russia says, mildly offended.

“Do you? Show me,” the man whispers.

And in a moment Russia has whirled him around so fast it spins out the tails of his sharp-dressed military coat. They spin and dart together, as one, forward and back, to the side and return, their steps in time with the music, and their bodies held together from chest to hip.

This is one way to stave off the chill of a Russian winter, thinks Russia.

If there’s something he shouldn’t be doing - something his Empress would really, greatly prefer he not - it is this, locked in the embrace of the arms of another man, a Frenchman (but a  _man_ _),_ dancing something that is still so frowned upon.

But isn’t this just what France would do? Because isn’t that why France warned him not to get too close to humans? So he suspects. Why else would France have warned him so? He must speak from experience, it must be so!

They’re fragile, helpless, their little lives are snuffed out so easily, gone in a puff of smoke, grown and old and dead in a mere matter of decades.

And this man is comfortable and warm in his arms…

… and he won’t live much longer than another forty years at most.

The song ends. “I - well now I really should go,” the man in his arms says, with a deep blush.

Russia ignores him and bends down to kiss him soundly on the lips.

The man accepts it, briefly, his hand on Russia’s shoulder tightening, he pushes up into the kiss and presses them together, and Russia’s heart leaps for joy -

\- and then breaks the embrace and brushes by him.

Russia darts past the guards to the balcony to try and find the man again but the party has reached full swing, and the music plays on. He looks around for an hour but can’t find his dancer anywhere.

–

“And where did you disappear off to?” asks France, days later. Russia avoids the topic of conversation until they are far away from his Empress.

“I met someone,” he says finally, when France and he have found a moment alone.

France lifts an eyebrow. “Who was she?”

Russia shakes his head. “He was one of yours, I thought.”

France rolls his eyes. “Not another man! I thought I told you, enough with men, if you will be European you must take our customs, we don’t look so kindly on sodomy.”

“When have we ever played by the rules of humans!” Russia scoffs.

France sours, his lips twisted wryly, which means he can’t help agreeing with Russia’s logic and wishes deeply he could find fault. “I suppose,” he finally says, tartly. “Who was he? One of mine, you said?”

“So I thought,” says Russia. “He was lovely, truly. If - if I could even have his name, I’d like to exchange letters, at least?”

France shrugs. “It may be the case he marches off to war. The theatre in the Americas grows larger every day. I hear Spain and our Dutch Republic friends may be participating. At least I shall not be the only one! But,  _Russie mon cher_ , did I not warn you against humans? Those poor souls, they do not last.”

Russia has the grace to look abashed. “He was different,” he insists. “He was beautiful, he had these lovely blond curls, a little like yours, and eyes the colour of mine, I don’t see eyes like that often, and he was so graceful and poised, and calm. And being with him made me feel so happy, you don’t even know!”

If only forty years he’ll get, it’s forty hears of happiness, is that not something?

“Oh, I know the man you speak of,” mutters France. “Then forget what I said of humans. You’re not to approach him, do you hear me?”

“He approached  _me_ ,” Russia notes.

France purses his lips. “Yes, and he  _shouldn’t_  have, but I imagine he could not help himself. Or that he could and elected not to. But it isn’t as though he is my charge anymore and England does not like you.”

It is Russia’s turn to lift an eyebrow.

France hmphs. “Custody battle,” he supplies, “which I lost. As though England really feels he has any right to him! But it doesn’t matter, I shall take him back someday. At least he gave me that sugar colony - have you met him yet? A delightful fellow, rather sweet - hah! - if I should say so myself - have you not a sweet tooth yourself? You could ask  _him_  if you really insist upon men -”

\- but Russia is hardly listening.

He’s a country! He’s one of  _them!_

Russia could wait a hundred years and that man will still be there, all he needs is patience.

His heart leaps and bounds and does a _trepak_ in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> I think I wrote this for Valentine's Day 2013? Something like that. Anyway, historical notes:
> 
> In Russia, Catherine II (“the Great”) - wife of the former Emperor, Peter III - seized power in 1762. Both were Prussian but Peter’s policies were typically more pro-Prussian and less focused on Russia (despite ruling it). The serfs profited a bit from his short reign (ex., it became a punishable act for a landowner to kill a serf, there was some social stratification in the peasantry).
> 
> Under Catherine, Russia itself grew larger and stronger than before and became recognised as a great power of Europe. But for all Catherine’s enlightened ideals (Catherine was a correspondant of Voltaire) the serfs didn’t profit very greatly.
> 
> It’s also worthwhile noting that in Medieval Russia, homosexuality was not perceived as a crime and was looked on pretty lightly. Peter the Great instituted some policies that made it criminalised at least in the Imperial Army (~1710’s or so), and some say this was in response more to how shocked the rest of Europe that Russia had been viewing sodomy so lightly.
> 
> On the Western front, in 1763 came the treaty of Paris in which France cedes the remaining parts of what was Nouvelle-France to England (and Spain), including Acadia proper (much of New Brunswick), Cape Breton Island, and what was then Canada (the stretch of land along the fleuve St-Laurent, aka Quebec City, Montreal and Trois-Rivieres).
> 
> France retained fishing rights off Newfoundland, and the two islands, Saint-Pierre and Miquelon, for drying the fish. France also gained Guadeloupe, a sugar colony.
> 
> The inference here which some historians have concluded is that France considered tiny Guadeloupe more valuable than all of Canada.
> 
> France referring to Spain and the Dutch Republic is a note of these two allying themselves with the American rebels. It’s another clue that the story is winter 1779. That is literally the only reason for its mention.


End file.
